


throne

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Background Relationships, Blood, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Infidelity, Creampie, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Jealousy, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Mutual Pining, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Season/Series 03, Top Will Graham, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Will Graham is a Cannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 18:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18321098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: Hannibal's gaze sharpens, and he lets out an aggravated noise. "A surrogate," he repeats. "I believe you were the one who made it perfectly clear that I must sate my needs on my own. That I can do as I please, as long as it does not rely on your involvement."





	throne

Will sighs, heavily, rolling his shoulders until they crack as he closes the front door behind him, wincing when, above his head, a chorus of creaking bedsprings and knocking headboard-to-wall seeps through the air and into his ears.

His lip lifts, but he refuses to take the bait. Just like he has always refused to take the bait – after the fall, after he had recovered enough to move on his own, give himself his own medication, bathe himself and knew Hannibal was similarly semi-sufficient, he nixed all physical contact between them. Call it penance, call it petulance, but Will couldn't stand the thought of Hannibal touching him for the longest time.

Then, when he could, when he wanted it more than he wanted to breathe, he had been resistant so long that Hannibal no longer reached for him. Perhaps he knows Will has changed his mind – he has sharp eyes, still, after everything, and can likely taste the ache in Will's pulse when he moves – and now he is giving his own back. A constant push and pull, was it really possible to ever think they could be content together?

They hunt together, and they kill together, and they share their meals and homes. But for the rest, they are as strangers.

Hannibal has taken it upon himself to sate his need for physical touch, since Will remains so steadfastly, stubbornly resistant to it. The amount of lovers Hannibal brings to his bed might rival the number of cows he brings to his kitchen. Endless, they seem, a stream of smiles and pink cheeks and hiccupping laughs; charmed, effortlessly, by the snake as he curls around them and begins to tighten.

Will bares his teeth when, above his head, he hears a particularly loud grunt. Hannibal, for it is male. He can't hear Hannibal's lady of the night, yet. Perhaps she is a quiet one.

He wants to have a drink, but his skin is caked in old sweat and he is sore, and wishes for nothing more than a shower and a dreamless sleep. So, decided, he sheds his coat and shoes, tucks his bag under the chair beside the closet, and makes his way upstairs quietly. He moves in silence, both a predator and mindful – back in his college days, and then further on the force, he'd had roommates, and it's polite not to break the illusion of privacy. When Will's college roommate brought girls back to their dorm, Will turned his face to the wall and pretended he couldn't hear them fucking. His first apartment after college, when his roommate would leave a tie or sock on his door, Will would give him a wide berth or leave the place entirely, out of respect.

In Wolf Trap, he didn't need to worry, for he neither shared space with another man, nor had women so eager to come spend the night with him. Still, the instinct is easy to remember, as he ascends the stairs and relies on his socks and slow steps to keep his movements silent.

Hannibal's door is the first one past the stairs, which Will knows he chose deliberately because it means he's always aware of when Will rises, when he goes to bed. He likes being the first one up and the last one asleep – whether that's some protective instinct to see the house secure, or to make sure Will isn't going to knife him while his guard is down, or he simply enjoys how much Goddamn time Will dedicates to dissecting the choice, Will doesn't know. He refuses to give Hannibal the satisfaction of asking.

He is past Hannibal's door, a foot away, when he hears another masculine noise – a snarl, not unlike what has haunted his dreams and lingered in the fog that clings to the shore of the lake he fishes on. They are in a place dark and cold, humid and heavy with water at all times. The kind of place where monsters thrive.

He thinks it is Hannibal, but then -. He frowns, head tilted, shoulders turning. He has never tried to listen, never wanted to imagine Hannibal with a woman, never wanted to picture them together, to think about what Hannibal looks like when he fucks. He's a doctor, and he's big, and strong, and Will is _sure_ he's good in bed because he doesn't think Alana is the kind of woman to tolerate bad sex – and that is, abruptly, where Will always slices the throat of his thoughts and lets them bleed behind his eyelids.

If that sound is Hannibal, then the next one that comes, the soft, pretty whimper and 'Fuck' Will hears. _That_ is -.

Will clenches his fists together tight enough that his nails cut into his palms, and lifts his lip, letting out a growl so fierce and rough it sends a bubble of spit flying through the air, landing on the floor in front of his feet. No. No _fucking_ way. Women, Will could tolerate. They are soft, and pretty, and it's primally satisfying to make them feel good.

Men…

And it is a man. The second voice moans again, louder, and the headboard gives a particularly sharp _crack_ as it collides with the wall – the wall Will's room shares with his.

"Oh, fuck you," he hisses, and he turns away, striding back towards the stairs.

Hears, immersed in a weak laugh, and freezes; "I think your roommate's home."

Will might be spitting venom. Swallowing fire. He can't remember the last time he was this angry.

Then, Hannibal's laugh, rough and breathless as though he's been running. But no, not running – something much worse than that. "Ignore him, darling," he purrs, and Will's vision goes white, and then red.

Then, utterly black.

He wastes neither time nor energy with indecision. It's a pity, for whatever poor wayward thing Hannibal lured to him doesn't deserve to die just because he doesn't understand their games, but such is the way of things. The wolf doesn't care if it's the stag's first time in the meadow. Doesn't care if it has visited that place a thousand times, and thinks it safe.

The wolf knows only hunger, and how to sate it.

He slides one of Hannibal's large knives from the block on the kitchen counter, admiring the shine of it, the soft slide of metal against metal as he pulls it free. He runs his thumb across the edge of it, humming when he finds it sharp, but not quite sharp enough. Slaughtering a pig with blunt tools is cruel.

Hanging behind the knife block is a strip of metal, a magnet from which the knife sharpening rod hangs. He takes it, grips it tight enough his knuckles whiten, and runs them together, the brace of steel against steel ringing out. He wonders, almost absently, if Hannibal can hear it. Hopes he can.

He rubs the blade and rod together again, snarling to himself. Thinks about using the rod to bloody Hannibal's pretty face, to bruise and welt his lips so he can't lure anymore. Lures aren't always pretty, sometimes they are just bright and red and that is enough, but the fish Hannibal likes to catch won't bite when they see what Will did to him, by the end.

He imagines taking Hannibal's teeth, imagines burning his fingers until he can no longer feel. Cutting out his tongue, so he can no longer kiss and lick sweat from flushed skin. Hannibal's body is worth nothing if he's giving it away to just anyone, the same way too much paper money floods the market and makes the dollar weak. A commodity no longer rare.

Finally, the gleaming edge of the knife looks sharp enough to cut through single drops of rain, and Will smiles, putting the rod back in its place, and shifts the knife to his right hand. He grips it steadily – it has been a long time since he allowed his fingers to shake, with any emotion. Anger makes him calm, focused, cold-cut as diamond.

They're still going at it, like he's not even here.

He snarls, and ascends the stairs silently. The floorboards don't creak, eager to keep his secret, and he swallows, steels himself, and wraps his fingers around the handle of Hannibal's bedroom door, easing it open on soundless hinges.

Inside, Hannibal's room is dark, lit only by his bedside lamp. Curtains drawn. Will has seen this room before, nothing in it is new to him – it's a plain affair, comparatively spartan from Hannibal's Baltimore home, with only a bed, a closet, and a chest of drawers for him to keep his clothes. A desk, for him to use when he sketches or reads.

The bed. The sheets are bunched up at the base of it, and though Will knows what he expects to see, what he ends up witnessing stops him in his tracks.

Hannibal. _Hannibal_. And the second voice suddenly has a form, though in Will's black vision it is shapeless. He sees a sweaty mess of dark brown hair, long enough to pull – which Hannibal is doing, a fist in thick strands, his other hand pressed to the man's back. But that is not what surprises him.

Rather, it is the sight of Hannibal's legs wrapped around this other man's waist. The undeniable, spiteful understanding as it hits Will, that Hannibal is letting this man _inside_ him. He's letting this nameless, unworthy _thing_ use his body for his own pleasure, and he hasn't fucking earned it.

How _dare_ he.

The man grunts, and Will's nostrils flare, his teeth snap together and he swallows so he doesn't make a sound. He closes the door behind him. Tightens his grip on the knife.

Strides up to the edge of the bed, and leans forward, wrapping a hand over Hannibal's, and then up, yanking the man away from him. The man gives a startled cry, flailing like a landed trout, and Will sees Hannibal's eyes snap open, meets his eyes and only his eyes, as he sets the knife to the man's throat and slices.

A long, slow cut, through muscle, through jugular and carotid. Blood arches from the man's neck in a thick spray, and Will snarls as Hannibal merely blinks at him. His cheeks are flushed, his hair matted with sweat, his legs falling limp and open, cock hard against his belly.

Soaked in blood, both of them, quickly, as the man spasms and chokes and dies in Will's grip. Will snarls, and moves backwards, hauling the body off the bed as it shudders and convulses, and lands on the floor with a heavy thud.

Hannibal presses his lips together, his eyes black but shining now, flashing with interest as Will tightens his fingers in this usurper's hair, yanks the head up. The neck of it is open, red and shining. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Strong jaw covered in light scruff. Hannibal isn't subtle.

Will stifles another angry sound, and flings the corpse away, and meets Hannibal's eyes again.

Hannibal swallows, and presses his hands to the bed, straightening, and Will snarls, steps up to the edge of the mattress and points at Hannibal with his bloody knife. "Stay right where you are," he commands. A single bead of blood drips from the knife, and lands on Hannibal's cock. It twitches, stained red.

Hannibal's lips thin out, and he wets them, but doesn't otherwise move. His eyes rake down Will as though seeing him for the first time, and he looks brazen and whorish, fucked-open and wet. There is a splatter of blood across his cheeks and nose, and Will can see lube shining on his rim, see that, beneath the blood, he is flushed and sweaty. Clearly he was enjoying himself.

Will breathes out. He's not quite sure what he wants to say. Not sure that whatever he tried to say would not come out as just more animal snarls. Anger, outrage, betrayal, they sting at the back of his throat, stalling his tongue and drying out his mouth. But, beyond that, the sight of Hannibal covered in blood, messy, dirty because of Will – he likes that. He likes the look Hannibal is giving him.

His hand shakes, now, and he lowers the knife.

Hannibal's brows lift, and his lips part. He says, quietly, still hoarse but just as calm and cool as he always is; "What was his offense?"

For that is the rule now. They hunt, but Will guides the leash, chooses the prey. Decides when and where and how. Hannibal's domain is the kitchen, but Will's is the open field, the dense forest, the rushing river. He is the means through which they find their food.

"Was he any good?" he spits.

"He was performing rather admirably before you stopped him," Hannibal says lightly. He's still hard, erection not flagging even a little – he has made it no secret that he relishes Will's attention. His lips twitch into a smile when Will growls, the knife tapping against his thigh.

His upper lip curls back. He wants to lick the blood from Hannibal's thighs.

Hannibal's smile widens. "You're angry."

"You're damn right I'm angry," Will says.

"Regardless of your temper, you are capable of restraint. Something about this man made you act…rather recklessly." Hannibal gestures down at his body. At the stain of blood on Will's hands and jeans. At the corpse, cooling by his feet.

"His existence offended me."

Hannibal's eyes flash, and his lips turn down in a rather sour look. He shifts his weight despite Will's warning, bringing his legs together and propping himself up more comfortably against the squashed pillows at the head of his bed.

"More than the others," Hannibal says. "Because he was a man."

"I can tolerate a lot of things, Hannibal, but not a Goddamn surrogate."

Hannibal's gaze sharpens, and he lets out an aggravated noise. "A surrogate," he repeats. "I believe you were the one who made it perfectly clear that I must sate my needs on my own. That I can do as I please, as long as it does not rely on your involvement."

Will tries not to wince. Succeeds, but only barely, clinging to his anger. He steps up to the bed, until his knees hit the blood-soaked mattress. "You think this doesn't involve me?" he snaps, and barks a harsh, low laugh. "You think anything you do doesn't fucking involve me?"

"Oh, were you here for the others? I must have missed you," Hannibal replies curtly. "You are so fond of skulking around in shadows now."

Will's fingers tighten around the handle of the knife. It is warm, and sings in his hand, vibrating with Will's desire to do more harm. He thinks, again, of cutting off Hannibal's hands and feet; see how proud and confident he is when he can only crawl.

He circles the bed, and grabs Hannibal's throat with his free hand, almost surprised when Hannibal lets him. He lifts his chin, so self-assured, so confident Will won't really hurt him. His eyes are black, and Will tightens his nails until he can feel pulse and pressure, feel the steadiness of his heartbeat. No fear. Animals like Hannibal don't feel fear.

But, after a moment that lasts a lifetime and barely a breath, Hannibal's lashes lower, and he presses his lips together. "Your emotions and your anger are not my responsibility," he says, "and I won't apologize."

Will didn't expect him to.

"No," he murmurs in agreement, and sets the knife on the bedside table, beneath the halo of lamplight, "but you're going to let me finish the job."

Hannibal's eyes flash to his, and widen. He swallows, heartbeat ticking up in pace beneath Will's hand, and sucks in a soft breath. His hips arch, his legs spread in invitation, and Will smiles, prowling onto the bed. Blood soaks through his clothes as he kneels between Hannibal's thighs. He ignores the lubricant, ignores Hannibal's offered hole and hard cock, looks only at his face as he fumbles with his jeans, undoing them and pulling his cock free from his underwear.

Blood has pooled now, drying on Hannibal's skin, darkening the raised scar tissue from his bullet wound, sitting in the lines Will left by proxy on his wrists. Proxies, surrogates, fucking _replacements,_ never as good as the real thing. Fool's gold, and Hannibal is a fool.

He gentles his hand, claws to Hannibal's shoulder. Digs in to keep him still. "Were you thinking of me, when he fucked you?"

Hannibal growls, and shakes his head.

Will's smile softens, grows affectionate. He leans in, and relishes how Hannibal's chin lifts, his eyes widen and flash with anticipation, with eagerness. Loves how Hannibal's lips part, his tongue wet and seeking, how his forehead is warm and damp with sweat when Will pushes theirs together.

Loves how his legs spread, and bend, making room for Will, and he pushes his clothes to his knees and strokes his cock until he's hard enough to penetrate. Hard enough to take.

"Liar," he whispers fondly, and pushes in.

Hannibal shivers, clamping warm and wet around him, and Will's anger makes his vision go black again. He hates how easy it is to sink in. Hates how wet Hannibal already is. Hates that even the scent of blood is sour, knowing whose it is. Hates that he cannot touch Hannibal without knowing another man got here first.

"No more surrogates," he snarls, and pushes at Hannibal's thighs, making him hook up high on Will's back. His hands, then, go to Hannibal's neck, pressing and tugging so he's on his back on the mattress and Will can tower over him. "I'll kill them all. Anyone else, I swear, Hannibal, I'll fucking kill them."

Hannibal stares at him openly, a flash of outrage in his own eyes at Will's presumption, to own Hannibal's hands and body, to tell him when he can fuck, and who, and how. But that's how it must be between them; their hunts, their meals, Hannibal's needs, they are his to shoulder, his to bear. He is the man who tames beasts and monsters, and this one is _his_.

He fucks in again, as brutally as he's able, watches as Hannibal's face goes slack with a sharp, almost surprised spasm of pleasure. Feels his cock twitch and leak between their stomachs as Will drives his cock against his prostate and uses Hannibal as his own.

He doesn't even know if what he's feeling can be called pleasure – yes, Hannibal is warm, the tight clench of his muscles sending ricochets of heat and need up Will's spine. But it feels worse, so much worse than that; a hunger that begs him bite, a jealousy that bids him claw and mark. Tame, _tame_ , control this monster who thinks himself a man.

"You're mine, Hannibal," he breathes, and bites hard at Hannibal's jaw. Snarls; "If I have to cut the throat of everyone who even _looks_ at you, I will." And he's not sure, in that moment, if he's exaggerating. He might, he might; the knives sing for him.

Hannibal breathes out heavily, releases a soft, almost sweet sound. His head tilts and Will gasps, gritting his teeth when he feels Hannibal's lips press to his neck. Will half expects him to bite, but he doesn't – he is gentle, mouthing at Will's thundering pulse like he might soothe a wild horse, his hands flat on Will's clothed back as Will fucks him.

He says, utterly weak and so happily Will might sob; "This is what I wanted, Will. You are beyond compare."

He whispers it as he starts to shake, body spasming in earnest as Will fucks him, and Will cannot keep still, and yet -. Yet, anger leeches from him like poison from his blood, suckled by Hannibal's gentle mouth. He shivers, sighing, and buries his face in his monster's neck, runs his hands down Hannibal's flanks and cups his hips, angling him up so it's better for him. Feels Hannibal clench, bearing down, coming with a soft, sated moan as he spills between their stomachs, blood and come smeared and soaked into Will's shirt.

Will shivers, breathing hard as Hannibal pets down his back, clinging with nails through his clothes. He is aching, Will feels it like his own tortured lungs are robbed of air – Hannibal's need for touch, his rabid desire for Will's warmth. Will closes his eyes, goes still and presses deep.

"Hannibal," he breathes, and doesn't know now what is causing the tightness in his throat. Perhaps there is too much, too many things, to simply name one. But he clings as Hannibal kisses his pulse, wraps a hand through Will's sweaty hair.

"Please Will," he whispers, and Will doesn't ever remember Hannibal begging him for anything. It strikes him like a brand, and he shudders, fingers flexing on Hannibal's hips. "Finish, darling. Inside me."

Will snaps his teeth, shakes his head. _Darling_. "Don't call me that," he snarls. "You called him that."

"I called all of them that," Hannibal confesses, still so gentle, "when I was thinking of you."

…Oh. Oh, _God_. Will rears up, shoulders flexing into Hannibal's hands, and shoves their foreheads together, breathing hard as he ruts between Hannibal's thighs. Pulls out just enough to get some force behind his thrusts, watching Hannibal spasm and shake with sensitivity.

"No one else," he says, and isn't sure if it's another demand, or a promise of his own. He hasn't let anyone touch him since Hannibal, and he won’t let anyone else, ever again. Hannibal nods, licks his lips, cradles Will's skull and neck with large hands, his thighs tight on Will's back, heels dug in and urging him on.

Will's orgasm comes to him like his anger does – swift, relentless, and himself powerless to stop it. His nails bite through drying blood, through skin, finding fresh red, and he shoves in deep, moaning loudly as he lets Hannibal tighten and tense for him, and floods him, fiercely glad there is no competing seed for him to worry about. This monster, this is his; Will alone deserves to cut deeper, to pierce fuller, to claim every inch of Hannibal he designs to.

He collapses over Hannibal with a shivering exhale, rutting lazily to make sure Hannibal's starving body soaks up as much blood, semen, sweat as it can. Hannibal pets him, kisses his jaw, sore from clenching his teeth. Kisses his red cheek. Kisses, when Will lifts in offering, the prick on his thumb where he tested the knife's sharpness.

He doesn't pull out. He won't until he has no other choice, merely goes lax and sated in his monster's arms.

Hannibal is shaking, subtly, but there, his heart racing beneath Will's hand. He swallows, and says, as though unsure of Will's wrath even now; "I never kissed them. Any of them."

It is a desperate askance, and Will smiles, and lifts his head. Nuzzles Hannibal, their noses brushing. Lets their lips touch, no less chaste and quick than a brush of air.

"Not when I can still smell him on you," he says, and Hannibal swallows again, and nods. "After we shower, and eat…. Then, I will."

Hannibal's eyes are bright, and Will realizes in a sudden flash of shared emotion that he is not simply recovering from a brutal fuck, but practically vibrating with joy. Happiness, relief – to think, it took so much to bring them to the cliffs. So much more, to bring them to a bed. Fools, the both of them, covered in blood and gold.

He sighs, and touches Will's cheek with utmost gentleness. Will turns his head, lips touching the thrum of his heart beneath delicate skin, and pulls back with a sigh, impatient now. There is so much to clean.

He shivers, as he feels the heat of his release follow him, staining Hannibal's thighs when he looks down and sees it leaking out of him. He smiles, wide and viscerally pleased, and hears Hannibal huff a soft laugh.

"Can you manage with the body, while I clean myself of his offense?"

Will hums, turns and kisses the ridge of Hannibal's knee. "Sure," he says quietly, and moves from the bed. Ignores the man and thinks of skinning his face and scalping him so he no longer resembles Will quite so starkly. "I'll get him ready for you, since he so kindly got you ready for me."

He cannot help the sharpness of the words, but the anger there is no longer black. Muted grey, like a new dawn.

Hannibal rises from the bed, approaches Will, and nudges his nose to Will's neck, breathing in deeply. He has always been so desperately physically affectionate, Will knew that even before the fall – like an animal, who will purr when petted and lick when given soft words.

Will smiles, turns his head, and rubs their cheeks together. "Go shower," he commands, with softness and affection, and squeezes Hannibal's hand, before pulling his jeans and underwear back into place. Hannibal stands, naked and bloody like some feral god, and Will shivers when he looks at him.

Hannibal smiles at him, and parts with one last touch of cheek to cheek. "As you wish, darling."


End file.
